


Bodywork

by classified



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Disability, Drug Use, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, Marijuana, Massage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Skinny Steve, Slow Burn, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, body issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7303075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classified/pseuds/classified
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Natasha bullies Steve into treating his chronic pain through massage, and he meets someone in the waiting room whose body is even more fucked-up than his own. (And eventually things get happier, I promise.)</p><p>"Steve Rogers had never been healthy, even before long-untreated childhood Lyme disease had fucked with his immune system and wreaked havoc on his joints. He was deaf in one ear, comically nearsighted, terribly asthmatic, and he had a heart murmur. He'd been in and out of hospitals all his life; been poked, prodded, penetrated, prescribed. His body wasn't ever comfortable, was never a home or a place of pleasure – it was a collection of graphs and charts and diagnoses."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Steve woke early. 

Too early: grey winter light was barely sneaking in through his drawn blinds, and the city was poised in a strange, shuttered 5am quiet, teetering on the brink of morning. Even when Steve leaned his good ear towards the windowpane, all he heard was the slow groan of a passing bus, and somewhere in the distance, the balk of a broken muffler. He lay for a while in his bed, huddled under the flannel sheets, trying to reclaim sleep, but his body ached no matter what position he put it in, so finally he pushed himself out of bed and padded to the bathroom. By the time he was washing his hands and staring blearily into the mirror above the sink, he was awake for the day. He shook his daily handful of pills into his palm – all colors, all shapes, oblong and round and blue and yellow and pink – and swallowed them down with a few gulps of tepid water. 

The tiled floor was cold, and the chill traveled up his bare feet and began to settle, aching, in his joints, his knobby knees, his narrow shoulders, his skinny ankles. Twenty-eight years old and already he had the body of an old man, thin and creaky and unreliable. Undesirable, he thought, glancing at himself as he passed the full-length mirror in his bedroom; what he wouldn't give for just ten extra pounds. If only for some extra warmth! He dressed quickly, jeans over long johns, wool socks, thick sweater over a white henley, wool cap pulled down nearly to the brim of his thick glasses, and took a quick, regulatory puff on his inhaler, just to get his sluggish lungs moving until he could pound some coffee. 

By the time his roommate stumbled into the kitchen at 7am, Steve was already half a pot deep, and was hunched at the kitchen table with his vaporizer and his laptop, squinting at a series of emails from students begging extensions for their final projects in 2D Design, which were due, of course, that very day. 

He was too tired for this shit; too stoned. He hated teaching online, hated the way he couldn't even put a face to this list of names flooding his inbox. He vastly preferred teaching in person, but he'd been in and out of the hospital so many times the previous semester that his department chair had gently but firmly insisted on digitizing most of his course-load, “Until you've got a clean bill of health,” she'd said, as if that were ever something he could hope for. 

It was just bad luck last spring, with the pneumonia first and then that terrible asthma attack, then an opportunistic strep infection that had happily pounced on his already-compromised immune system and kept him bedridden for a week... Not to mention the time he'd passed out in front of his terrified Drawing I class and been carted away in an ambulance... 

“Can I drink some of this?” Natasha said, hand hovering over the coffee pot.

“Of course,” Steve said. He took a hit off his vape, held it in for a moment. 

“I turned the heat up,” Nat said. She was in a pair of her boyfriend's boxers and a tiny tank top; meanwhile Steve had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders for extra warmth. “Should kick in soon.”

“I'm fine,” Steve protested. They split the heating bill evenly, and it didn't seem fair to make Nat pay for his shitty body. “I'm plenty warm.”

“Yeah,” Nat said, eyeing him, in his blanket and thick cap. “All you need is a garbage can fire, and you'll be good to go.”

“You're up early,” Steve said, changing the subject. 

“Got a meeting at 9,” she said. “All the way in Manhattan. You should talk, though – I heard you up and about way before my alarm went off. You been sleeping okay?”

“I slept great,” Steve lied. 

“You call that masseuse yet?” Nat said, leaning against the counter, hands wrapped around her mug. She frowned at Steve's head-shake. “Steve. Come on.”

“You said he specialized in vets,” Steve said defensively. “I didn't wanna take up his time.”

“I told him you were going to call yesterday,” Nat said. “He's waiting to hear from you, you're making me look bad. Do you want me to call for you? I could make you an appointment if --”

“Jesus, no,” Steve said, flushing. “Quit bugging me about it, okay?”

“You know,” said Nat, tossing a short red curl out of her eye, “it's really frustrating to watch someone point-blank refuse to take care of themselves.”

“I'm not refusing to –” Steve stopped, shook his head in annoyance. “Why're you giving me shit so early in the morning? 

“I know you were up half the night,” she said. “I heard you going back and forth to the bathroom. You're smoking weed at --” she checked her watch “--7:30am. I know you're in pain. And I know you'll stay in pain until you fucking do something about it.”

“I'm not in --” 

“Look, Steve,” Nat said. “All day I deal with people worse off than you, way worse – traumatized ex-soldiers with missing limbs and brain injuries and dead best friends and guilt as deep as the Nile, not to mention, you know, run-of-the-mill debilitating PTSD, and I spend all my time trying to help them get their shit together, to help themselves, to go to their meetings and get PT and do their exercises, and it's fucking exhausting, it really is. Then I come home and it's like I'm at work again, begging you to get One. Single. Fucking. Massage. One massage! And you accuse me of giving you shit? I'll give you shit, Steven Rogers. Your mother told me to watch out for you, on her deathbed, I might add, with her last dying breath, she told me to take care of – are you – are you laughing at me?”

“No!” Steve said. “It's just – sorry, this is very dramatic.”

“Most people are scared of me,” she said, scowling. “I've made grown men quake in their boots with a speech like that.”

“I'm quaking,” Steve said consolingly, and pushed back from the table, stood up with an audible pop of his knees and went over to where she stood, arms crossed. He put his arms around her, blanket and all, and for a second she resisted, then he felt her soften beneath him and settle her head on his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” Steve said. “My shit shouldn't have to be your shit.”

“Yes it should,” she said, muffled by his shirt. “We've been sharing shit since second grade.” She raised her head, looked him in the eye. “When I finished my last tour, you put me up for nearly a year – you slept on your fucking couch so I could have the bed. You held my hand when I woke up crying. You bussed with me to my therapy appointments. You were there for me... and I let you be there. I slept in your bed. I held your hand. I let you pay the rent.” She untangled herself from his embrace and moved away. “Love is a two way street, Steve,” she said, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. “It really sucks to feel like I'm walking down it alone.” 

Then, like an afterthought, “Call Sam and get a massage, or I'll massage your face with my fists.”

:::

The thing is, Steve had never been healthy, even before long-untreated childhood Lyme disease had fucked with his immune system and wreaked havoc on his joints. He was deaf in one ear, comically nearsighted, terribly asthmatic, and he had a heart murmur. He'd been in and out of hospitals all his life; been poked, prodded, penetrated, prescribed. His body wasn't ever comfortable, was never a home or a place of pleasure – it was a collection of graphs and charts and diagnoses. 

When he'd gotten older, he'd slept with people who'd seemed to intrinsically understand that, people who treated his body with clinical, uncaring attention, who moved him around and had their way with him completely separate from any emotional attachment. He wasn't stupid – he knew he probably sought-out this kind of sex, the only kind of physical attention he understand – but after years of sleeping around and still feeling no better than a sterile hospital bedpan, he'd retreated, and it'd been a couple years now since anyone had seen him naked or touched him outside of a doctor's office.

Which is why the idea of massage made him uncomfortable. He didn't like the idea that he had to pay someone to touch him gently. And he didn't want that kind of tenderness or attention, was too ashamed of his ugly little fucked-up body to subject someone else to its scrawny lines – and too angry, too furious at how it'd failed him. It didn't deserve to feel good. It was a junk heap. 

Was this a healthy attitude? Probably not. But Steve had never been healthy, so why pretend?

Weed helped, a little. It got him out of his shitty body, at least. Dulled the pain that extra-strength tylenol couldn't reach. Sometimes helped him sleep. He used a vaporizer to spare his lungs, a neat little contraption that had cost him almost a month's paycheck, and yeah, he knew he'd become kind of a pothead, but everyone had their vices, and in the grand scheme of things he thought a weed habit was pretty harmless. 

He got good and baked before he got on the subway the next day, and the five-stop ride to the massage parlor passed in a pleasant blur of white noise and people-watching. The old woman next to him had a brown rabbit in a tiny cage, which she held on her lap casually, like there was nothing unusual about it. When she saw Steve looking, she said something, smiling, but it was into his bad ear and he didn't hear a word, could only smile back, nodding. Her brow furrowed like it had been the wrong response. 

When Steve got off the train and walked the three blocks to the address he'd been given, huddled deep into the recesses of his puffy down jacket, he stood for a moment, frowning at the house number. It was an ordinary four-apartment house, no sign that he could see, just a row of numbers by the buzzer, no names, even. Dutifully, he pressed the buzzer for #1, and waited.

After a moment, the speaker crackled, and a deep voice said, “Stark Naked Bodywork.”

“Uh, yeah,” Steve said, thrown by the name. Shit, had Nat sent him to get a happy ending? “I have a twelve o'clock appointment? With Sam Wilson? On the phone they said to come early...” 

There was no answer, but in a second, the door buzzed, and Steve pushed it open and ventured into the hallway. #1 had a cheery typed sign that said “Come on in!”, so Steve went in without knocking, and found himself in a space that looked very much like a typical waiting room, but ten times more comfortable: armchairs instead of folding chairs, a big glass aquarium with several fat, bright fish, some kind of string instrument strumming quietly over the speakers. It smelled bright and relaxing, like lime with a hint of patchouli. There was one person waiting already, a broad-shouldered man in a baseball cap, his back to Steve. At the far end was a desk, and behind it sat an enormous man with long, braided blond hair, who stood when he saw Steve and sent him a mega-watt grin. 

“Welcome,” he said. “Steve Rogers, I presume? I am Thor, masseuse.”

Steve came forward to shake his gigantic hand. “Yeah,” he said, “Steve, that's me.”

“If you would do us the favor of filling out these intake forms,” Thor said, handing him a clipboard. “Sam will be ready for you in about fifteen minutes.”

Steve went to settle in a chair by the aquarium, across from the other client. Unable to resist, Steve tapped a few times on the aquarium glass, trying to get a response from a chubby orange fish who was drifting by the corner, blowing bubbles. The fish was unmoved, but the guy across from him glanced up from under the brim of his baseball cap, and Steve realized with a hot flush of embarrassment that he was gorgeous: soft bowed lips, sharp cheekbones shadowed with stubble, a flash of bright blue eyes. His dark hair just touched the collar of his flannel shirt shirt. He had a jacket wadded in his lap, and his left arm rested atop it, flannel sleeve rucked up enough to reveal the edge of a complex-looking metal brace that seemed to span his wrist and palm, all the way up to the middle of his fingers. Steve glanced at the brace automatically, and his eyes followed the glint of metal in an arc to where a metal crutch was propped up against the wall. The guy's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly when he saw where Steve was looking, and Steve blushed even harder. 

“Sorry,” he said, gesturing to the aquarium, to the orange fish he'd been bothering. “Just wanted to see some action.”

“Fish sleep with their eyes open,” the guy said, voice low and graveled, and Steve caught the burr of a Brooklyn accent.

“You think I woke him up?” Steve said, and the guy shrugged, looked away. Steve turned his attention to the clipboard on his lap. The intake forms were pretty standard, and he went through them with an efficiency born from years of practice, trying not to openly stare at the cute guy from the corner of his eye. The guy was very still, hands in his lap, eyes trained down, but when a car's brakes squealed on the street outside, he tensed noticeably. He was a vet, Steve figured, and he had a surge of shame for taking up an appointment that could have better served someone else, someone who deserved it. 

“James,” Thor boomed. “Tony will see you now.”

Steve fixed his eyes on his forms as the guy – James – got to his feet; a painful-looking process, right hand pushing on the arm of the chair, bad hand held against his chest, wavering a bit as he got upright. He reached for his crutch, settling his good hand and wrist in the forearm cuff, and Steve could see that he was leaning on it heavily as he passed, favoring his left leg. Steve couldn't help himself from peeking as he moved away and disappeared through the door by the desk; he had a great ass. A moment later, Thor called Steve's name. 

Nervous, Steve shuffled forward, offering his intake forms to Thor, but Thor shook his head. “Sam will go over those with you,” he said jovially. “Second door on the right, you can't miss it!” 

Minutes later, Steve was cursing Natasha's name. Sam was unfairly handsome, with shining dark skin and a kind smile with a hint of mischief, several inches taller than Steve, well-muscled in his tight t-shirt. And he was telling Steve to take off his clothes. 

“Some people prefer to be completely nude, some folks like to leave their underwear on,” Sam said. “It's up to you. I'll knock on the door before I come back in.”

It had been a long time since Steve had been undressed in front of anyone, and though he knew Sam was a professional, and had probably seen bodies in far worse shape than Steve's, he couldn't help feeling self-conscious. His mind flashed to James, to those broad shoulders, long legs, and he thought, with a tinge of bitterness, that while James's body was no doubt more fucked up than Steve's, it was still a hell of a lot nicer to look at. Steve was scrawny and pale like the carcass of a chicken. He shrugged out of his clothes quickly, keeping his boxers on and wincing a little as he bent to pull off his jeans, his knees protesting painfully, and then clambered onto the massage table, lying on his back like Sam had directed. It was heated, a nice surprise, and it felt good on his cold skin and aching shoulders. The ceiling was a comforting dark wood, and there was music playing, something low and fluting. 

When Sam knocked on the door, Steve called, “Come in.”

“Hi again,” Sam said, and wasted no time draping a warmed sheet over Steve's prone torso, all the way from his chin to his toes, and Steve smiled his gratitude. “Looking at what you wrote,” Sam said, holding up his clipboard, “I'm going to give you a full-body massage. Today I'll give every piece of you the same attention, and when you come back, we can focus more specifically based on what worked for us in this session. You should never feel pain that's unpleasant, so if it starts hurting, you let me know right away, all right?”

“Okay,” Steve said.

“May I take your glasses?”

“Okay,” Steve said again. 

“Some people like to close their eyes,” Sam said gently, as Steve stared up at him. Steve swallowed, and closed his eyes.

“I can feel your heart racing,” Sam said quietly, as he put his palms on Steve's chest. “There's nothing to worry about, okay? Just relax. You're safe in here. And if you don't like what I'm doing, just say the word and I'll stop. You're safe here,” he repeated.

“I'm not a vet,” Steve snapped. 

“War's not the only thing that makes people feel unsafe,” Sam said, not seeming to mind Steve's sharp tone. “Does this hurt?”

“A little,” Steve said, as Sam pressed a careful thumb into his neck, just below his ear. 

“Yup,” Sam said. “Got a good knot going here. Mmm hmm.” 

He was quiet, then, working, and god, Steve had to admit it did feel good. Sam's hands were strong and warm, and once he'd finished deep-massaging a specific body part, he gave it a slow, soft sweep of his palm, almost like he was brushing away the pain. It felt very different than being handled by a doctor: though Sam undoubtedly knew what he was doing, there was nothing clinical or dispassionate about the way he was using touch. He handled Steve's body with great familiarity, it seemed, and with firmness, like he knew what was best for it. He worked down Steve's arms, massaging even his tight palms, then down his legs, thumbs finding the ache behind Steve's kneecaps and soothing it, then calming the twinge of his ankles, pressing warm fingers into the painful arches of his feet. He handled Steve's body like it was something fixable.

“Turn over, now,” Sam murmured.

“Sorry,” Steve said, wiping his cheeks. 

“No apologies,” Sam said. “Plenty of people cry. Go ahead.”

By the time the hour and a half was up, Steve had soaked the face-rest, and felt like he was floating on a cloud. He could feel the pain lurking in a dark corner, ready to raise its head again, but for the time being it had been quieted; his knees were steady as he stood up, his shoulders were soft and flexible as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. When Sam came back into the room after leaving to let him get dressed, Steve smiled at him, stoned in a way that pot could never approximate. 

“How are you feeling?” Sam said.

“Pretty swell,” Steve admitted. 

“Swell, huh?” Sam said, smiling back.

“Got any openings tomorrow?” Steve said, half-joking, but Sam took out a little pocket calendar and started flipping through it.

“Tomorrow might be a little soon,” Sam said, “but if you're interested in working with me further, I think once a week would be best, at least at first.”

“Really?” Steve said. “I mean, yes, yes, I'm interested.”

“Some things you should know, first,” Sam said. “When I say work with me, I do mean work. I'm not just here to rub you down and send you on your way – I'm here to start you on a path to real healing and long-term effective management of your chronic pain. And that takes effort, on both our parts. I'm only with you for 90 minutes a week, so the rest of the week is on you. At the end of each session, I'll give you stuff to work on the for the following week: exercises, stretches, meditations. Nothing hard. It won't take more than fifteen minutes a day, I promise. But if you can't commit to those fifteen minutes, then our time together won't be nearly as effective, and it won't be worth it for either of us.” Sam waited, pen poised over his calendar, and when Steve didn't answer, he prompted, “What do you think?”

“I'm thinking Natasha's a sneak,” Steve said, and Sam tossed back his head and laughed. 

“Duped into PT,” Sam said, nodding. “Sounds like Nat.”

“But yeah, okay,” Steve said. “I'm in. How much, uh, how much is this going to set me back?”

“We should be able to go through your insurance provider,” Sam said. “Thor's running your card right now. We'll bill you depending on your coverage – maybe chiropractic, maybe physical therapy. I'll let you know before our next appointment. Next week, same time, same place? Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Steve said fervently. 

“Excellent,” Sam said, and handed him a stack of papers. “Your homework. Any questions, call up. Thor can help, or I'll ring you back.”

“Thank you,” Steve said. “Really.”

“No problem,” Sam said, flashing those gorgeous teeth, and it was a testament to his excellent bedside manner that Steve had nearly forgotten how good-looking he was. “I'm looking forward to it.”

:::

Steve didn't go home right away; he felt too good. He wanted to take advantage of the massage buzz to stay out for a while, watch the world, remind himself how much existed beyond the confines of his apartment, and beyond his aching body, so he ducked out of the cold, dreary day and into a small coffee shop by the subway station. It was a nice place; cozy, warm, hardwood floods and mismatched tables, and it smelled good, like baking bread. The line was five or so people deep, but it moved quickly, and at the end Steve was greeted by a smiling barista, sinuous tattoos all up her dark arms, hair in twists. 

“What'll it be?” she said cheerfully. 

“Cappuccino, two shots,” Steve said, and went to stand by the end of the counter to wait for his drink, eyes roaming the cafe for a place to sit. It was crowded; every table seemed full, and he resigned himself to lurking for a while until someone got up. 

“20 ounce soy latte!” called one of the baristas, a burly man almost as short as Steve, and a young woman in a trench coat pushed past Steve to reach her drink. 

“8 ounce mocha, three shots!” the barista hollered, and the woman who'd taken Steve's order turned from the register and frowned.

“Wait,” she said to the short barista, “that's for the guy over there; he asked that we bring it out for him.”

Steve followed her pointing finger around a corner he hadn't noticed, and his heart gave a funny sideways jump: sitting on a low flowered couch was the cute guy from the waiting room. James, Thor had called him. James was slouched back against the cushions, baseball cap pulled down, crutch propped against the arm of the couch, and as Steve watched, the short barista carefully carried his mocha across the room and set it down. James looked up to give a nod of thanks, and Steve caught a flash of those blue eyes from under the brim of his hat. 

“Here's your cappuccino, honey,” the female barista said, pushing it forward, and Steve held it carefully, moving forward to look for a vacant seat – knowing, even as his eyes swept the room, that the only free space was on the couch, right next to James. He approached with some trepidation. James didn't exactly give off a welcoming vibe; everything about his posture said he wanted to be left alone, from the defensive hunch to the concealing shadow of his baseball cap, but he glanced up at Steve's approach and something like recognition flickered across his face. God, he was even better-looking than he'd seemed earlier. 

“Hey,” Steve said awkwardly. “You mind if I...?” He gestured to the empty seat.

“Not my couch,” James said, in that Brooklyn rumble, and though it was hardly an invitation, Steve sat down next to him, careful to keep several feet of space between them. 

He set his cappuccino down on the low coffee table and dug into his backpack for his sketchbook, still reveling in the loose relaxation Sam had gifted his body. At first, he was hyper-aware of the fact that he was sitting next to one of the hottest guys he'd seen in years, his pulse racing, but soon enough he began to lose himself in drawing and forgot about James entirely. He drew his cappuccino, then drew the young woman in a trench coat, reading with her cheek on her hand. He sketched the heavily-pierced face of an older man with a neck tattoo, his smile wide and gap-toothed as he laughed at something his friend was saying. He drew the curve of a woman's back as she hunched over a croissant. He drew the way the sky was darkening outside the window, so the inside pane was both reflective and translucent, like a mirror between the worlds. 

He paused for a sip of his cooling cappuccino, reaching forward over the table, and in his peripheral vision he saw that James was looking right at him. Startled, Steve looked back, blinking. James had an expectant expression, his lips parted, head slightly cocked; an expression Steve had become familiar with over the years.

“Sorry,” Steve said. “Did you say something?”

James ducked his head, lips moving, but still Steve didn't catch it. “Sorry,” he said again, determined not to be embarrassed. “Can you speak up? I'm deaf on that side, and it's loud in here.”

“No, nothing,” James said, louder this time, color in his cheeks, but he lifted his face so Steve could see his lips. “I just said... all I said was, you must really like fish.”

Steve started to smile. “Fish?”

“Yeah, your ink,” James said, gesturing clumsily with his braced hand, and Steve looked down to the two carp entwined on his wrist, exposed where he'd rolled up his sleeves. 

“Oh,” Steve said, touching the tattoo ruefully. “My mom was a Pisces,” he said. “I don't actually care about fish all that much. Unless I'm eating them.”

“So Tony's aquarium looked like a buffet to you,” James said.

“Tony?”

“Tony Stark,” James said, eyebrows lifting. “He owns the clinic.”

“Ah,” Steve said. He'd been calling it a massage parlor in his head, but clinic sounded better, less indulgent. “That explains the name, I guess.”

“You saw Sam?” James said, and when Steve nodded, “He's a wizard, that guy.”

“You're telling me,” Steve said. “I haven't felt this good in years.”

“Where'd you serve?” James said, and Steve's smile disappeared. 

“I didn't,” he said. 

“Oh,” James said, and his face shut down a little, became more guarded. “Sorry. I just thought...”

“No,” Steve said. “My roommate works with, uh, with vets, and she set me up with the appointment. Where'd you, um...”

“Lotta places,” James said, but didn't elaborate.

“How long've you been back?”

“Bout a year and a half,” James said.

“Yeah?” Steve said. “How's that been?”

James barked a laugh, but didn't answer. He leaned forward to pick up his mocha, instead, and tilted it back to get the chocolatey dregs at the bottom of the mug. Then he began shrugging into his jacket, pausing for a long moment to fumble with his zipper, using his braced hand as a weight to keep the material from moving while he got the zipper going with his right hand. Steve had a sudden longing to do it for him, to reach over and zip him up and maybe kiss him on the cheek and pat him on the ass, send him on his snug way.

“I'm Steve,” Steve blurted out, and for a second he thought James wasn't going to answer. 

Then he said, “Bucky,” and offered his good hand. 

“Bucky?” Steve said, shaking automatically. His hand was wide and warm and strong. Had he heard that right? “I thought Thor called you James.”

“Thor's not a nickname kinda guy,” James – Bucky – said. “Everyone else, it's Bucky.”

“All right, Bucky,” Steve said, trying it out, and Bucky gave him a brief, beautiful smile. He looked different when he smiled, boyish and sweet, and Steve's heart legitimately fluttered. 

“Well, I gotta get going,” Bucky said, reaching for his crutch. He struggled up from the low couch, brow knotted in concentration or pain, and when he'd gotten himself situated he did a little hopping half-turn and moved his braced arm in a heavy arc to his chest, almost a wave. “See you around, Steve.”

“Bye,” Steve said faintly. He watched as Bucky maneuvered his careful way through the crowded cafe, nodding at the man who held the door for him, and he swiveled in his chair to watch as Bucky passed by the window, barely visible in the growing dusk, his gait stiff but steady.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for briefly gory memories.

“Hey,” Bucky said to his boss. “Nat's roommate – he's hard of hearing, right?”

“Steve?” Clint said, looking up from the box of books he'd been unpacking. “Yeah, stone deaf on one side, and I don't think the other ear's too great, either, but he doesn't talk about it. Why?”

“Think I met him the other day,” Bucky said. The little blond guy from the coffee shop had popped into his head more than once that week, and not only because of the way he'd sketched so beautifully, with those hands that seemed almost too big for the rest of his body, fingers so strong and confident, graceful... It wasn't his hands that had stuck in Bucky's mind, though, or not just his hands. It was something else, a sense of familiarity. Steve's name and what little he'd said about himself had pinged something, some radar in the back of Bucky's brain, and finally he'd put it together. 

“You met Steve Rogers?” Clint said, and put a stack of books on the desk. Dutifully, Bucky began scanning their ISBNS into the Lucky Page system. “You met him like, out?” Clint said. “In the world? Seriously?”

“I go out,” Bucky protested. 

“Even if that were true, Steve doesn't, not really,” Clint said. “His health isn't great. Always bad, worse lately.”

Bucky tucked this information away. “I met him at Stark's,” he said. “After PT.”

Clint looked startled, then he grinned. “Really? Wow. Good. Nat's been on him to see Sam for weeks.”

“He seems... cool,” Bucky said, surprising himself. He'd barely spoken to the guy, after all, but there was something about him that Bucky liked. He had spunk. 

“He's cool as hell,” Clint said, raising an eyebrow. “Wish he'd hang more. He goes for guys, if you were wondering.”

Bucky was spared having to stammer out an answer to this comment, because the reindeer bells above their front door jangled, and a couple teenage girls wandered in. They hovered for a moment, eyeing the mazelike shelves and the stacks of books teetering from every corner. 

“Um, sci-fi?” one of them said.

“Straight back, take a left,” Clint said, and they disappeared past Historical Romances. Bucky pushed the newly-scanned stack across the desk, and Clint deposited them on a metal trolley of books waiting to be tucked in their proper places. He cocked an eyebrow at Bucky. “You feel up to some shelving?” he said.

Bucky reminded himself not to bristle; Clint was being nice by asking. Clint was always being nice, from giving him this job, to renting him a studio apartment at cost, to showing up with DVDs and lasagna on a Friday night when he could've been out dancing with his gorgeous, terrifying girlfriend. Bucky was under no illusions that he'd be lost without Clint: unemployed, maybe homeless, definitely friendless. They'd grown up together, were practically family, but his gratitude rankled sometimes – like now, when Clint had to ask him if he was okay to do his fucking job. 

“That's what you pay me for,” Bucky said, easing himself off the stool and to his feet. He groped for his crutch, ignoring the knife of pain that lanced from his foot all the way up through his hip. It settled quickly enough, dimming to the bone-deep ache he'd grown more or less used to over the past year and a half, and he limped out from behind the desk, letting his crutch dangle from his wrist as he pushed the trolley forward, then limped after it. Push, limp. Push, limp. He was still amazed, sometimes, at how slowly he did the smallest tasks these days. Having just half a working body was inefficient, to say the least. At least the brace let him use his left hand as a tool, a blunt instrument instead of the floppy, broken thing it'd been when he was rescued. But better not to think about that time; better not to conjure the image of his unrecognizable hand dangling from his many-times broken wrist, or of his misshapen leg, the swollen knee, the open, flayed muscle, the wide white grins of the Russian soldiers as he'd screamed...

“Excuse me,” someone said, and Bucky jolted so hard he dropped the book he'd been holding. “Sorry,” said one of the teenaged girls, oblivious, “but do you have any sheet music?”

It took Bucky a second to answer; his heart was still pounding, vision still blurred. He took a deep breath, took another. “By the front,” he croaked. “Under the poster of Mozart.”

She vanished in the right direction, and he took a moment to lean his head against one of the packed-full shelves, breathing in the comforting scent of musty paper and old ink and letting his pulse return to normal. 

Sure, he was a little jumpy. But he'd answered the customer. She hadn't noticed anything was wrong. He was handling his shit. He was fine. 

:::

Steve Rogers was in the waiting room the next week, staring at the aquarium with his sketchbook out. He looked tired, face drawn, forehead crimped as if in discomfort, but when Bucky lowered himself into the chair across from him, he glanced up and behind thick glasses his blue eyes lit up in a smile. 

“Hey,” Steve said, and Bucky was surprised all over again at how deep his voice was. 

“You live with Natasha,” Bucky said, then blushed. He used to be good at smalltalk. Steve looked startled, but he nodded, head tilted like a curious bird. 

“Yeah, you know her?”

“Clint,” Bucky said, and cleared his throat. “I know Clint. I work with him. For him.”

“At Lucky Pages?” Steve said. “That must be a nice gig. Relaxing, I mean, surrounded by all those books, tucked away off the street like that. Though the dust would probably kill me.”

“We keep it clean,” Bucky said, irrationally defensive, and he saw color rise to Steve's cheeks.

“Sorry, of course,” he said. “Just, I've got – I've got pretty bad asthma, and old bookstores tend to set me off.”

“Oh,” said Bucky.

Steve was quiet, then, turning back to his sketchbook, and Bucky felt a surge of regret for snapping at him. He wished he could see the drawing unfolding on the page, but it was soothing just to watch Steve's big hands hover and sketch, sleeves of his grey button-up pushed almost to his elbows, displaying slender, well-formed wrists and what looked like two full sleeves of tattoos: ships, water, mountains. Bucky wondered if he'd drawn the designs himself. 

As he watched, Steve paused and put down the pencil to stretch out his legs, grimacing as his knees popped, and Bucky felt a sympathetic twinge in his own leg. 

“You an artist?” Bucky said. 

“Teaching pays the bills,” Steve said, eyes still on his drawing. “But yeah, I paint.”

Bucky readjusted his bad hand in his lap. “What do you paint?”

“Uh, I work small, in oils, usually,” Steve said, looking up at him through surprisingly thick dark lashes. “Representational stuff, mostly interiors.”

“Representational,” Bucky repeated. “That means, what? It looks real? Like, not abstract?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Steve said, grinning like Bucky'd aced some quiz. “Though I work a lot from memory so it's not necessarily realist in the strictest sense of the word.”

“James!” Thor boomed from the front. “Tony awaits you!”

Bucky got his crutch planted and started hoisting himself up. He found himself trying for more grace than usual, a vain attempt to make an inherently awkward maneuver seem natural, and he was thankful and a little embarrassed when Steve looked pointedly away, back to his drawing.

“Wish me luck,” he said when he was steady, and Steve looked back up immediately and grinned again in Bucky's direction. For such a skinny little guy, he had a smile as strong and warm as the sun. 

“Good luck,” Steve said.

:::

PT wrung Bucky out on the best of days, and this was decidedly not his best. The cold snap was hell on his bones, and his hand in particular had been aching fiercely, a throbbing deadweight from the elbow down. He'd timed his dose of pain meds just right but still every exercise was agony. 

“You call that a squeeze?” Tony said. “A preemie in the NICU could make a stronger fist than that.”

Bucky gritted his teeth, focused his attention on curling the mostly-unresponsive fingers of his ruined hand around the rubber ball balanced in his scarred palm. They were seated across from one another at a small table, Bucky's arm on a pillow between them. His fingers bent upwards painfully, barely brushing the round sides of the ball.

“Hold it there,” Tony commanded. “Good! Relax.”

Bucky let his hand go limp, sighing in relief, but it was short-lived: Tony was squirting oil into his own palms, which meant he was about to start massaging Bucky's hand, which meant a world of pain. Just five minute later, tears were gathering behind Bucky's eyes and he wasn't sure he could hold them back for much longer. 

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “Can we cut this short today?”

“Nope,” Tony said. 

“It's really...” Bucky swallowed. “It's really uncomfortable.”

“Tough cookies,” Tony said, pressing his thumb into the base of Bucky's pinky. “No pain, no gain.”

“Tony, I'm serious,” Bucky said, trying to pull away, but Tony gripped his forearm, met his eyes without smiling. 

“So'm I,” he said. “Suck it up, cupcake. Three more minutes, then you're good for another week.”

Bucky sucked in a ragged breath, closing his eyes, but as soon as his eyelids had lowered Tony pressed a particularly tender spot and he jerked away so violently his hand flew out from between Tony's and smacked into a vase of flowers, sent it crashing to the floor so loudly that he reacted on instinct, shooting up out of his chair – or trying, and failing, bad leg buckling, and then he was on the floor and everything was red with pain and Tony was yelling the way he only did when he was really worried. 

“Jesus christ, are you trying to kill yourself?” he shouted. “Are you trying to fuck up all the work we've done? What the hell was that?”

“I told you it fucking hurt!” Bucky yelled. 

“It's supposed to hurt, Sergeant Crybaby!” Tony hollered. “You know what's gonna hurt even more? When that scar tissue binds up so tight your hand turns into a claw and you don't have a hope in hell of ever making a fist to punch me in the face – and I know you want to, I know you wanna left-hook the hell out of me, and I'll let you do it, too, but not if you don't – ”

“Gentlemen!” Sam roared, slamming open Tony's office door. “May I remind you that you are not the only two people in this building? I've got a patient down the hall who's half deaf and even he could probably hear every damn word!”

Thinking of Steve listening in to this brought Bucky back to himself, somewhat, and he realized he was sitting in a puddle of water, pieces of shattered ceramic all around him, bad hand cradled to his chest, good hand bleeding from a sliver of vase in his palm. “Fuck,” he said. 

“Tony, help me get him up,” Sam ordered.

“I've got it,” Bucky snapped, but he didn't – he just scrabbled fruitlessly on the floor with his good foot until Tony let out a sigh of exasperation and came forward. Humiliated, Bucky hooked his bad arm around Tony's neck and let him haul him to his feet, Sam on his other side, tucked under his shoulder and holding him up. He dropped into his chair – was dropped – and he sat there, breathing hard. 

“What the hell just happened?” Sam said to Tony, then turned to Bucky before he could answer. “Barnes, if you'd rather work with Thor from here on out --”

“No,” Bucky said. “No, it's... Tony is... Me 'n Tony, we're good.”

“Didn't sound like you were good,” Sam said, looking back and forth between them dubiously. Tony folded his arms across his chest and managed to look completely relaxed, as if Sam were the one who was overreacting. “All right,” Sam said, shaking his head. “But if you ever need to work with a different therapist, Barnes, let me know. Tony, you and me? We're gonna have words later.”

“I don't doubt it, darling,” Tony said, batting his lashes. “Can't wait.”

With one last suspicious glance at them, Sam closed the door, leaving them alone. 

“I'm sorry,” Tony said immediately, because he might be a pushy asshole, but at least he could admit when he was wrong. “That was out of line, I went too far. I should've given you a break when you asked for it. You know me, I get over-invested, I want what's best for you but I just, I get excited, I forget to listen.”

“It's all right,” Bucky said. He didn't say aloud that he liked Tony's pushiness, liked his temper and attitude and the way he didn't treat Bucky like he was delicate or in need of coddling. He was pretty sure Tony knew those things. “Just got frustrated today,” he admitted. “Seems pointless to be in pain when I'm not making any fucking progress.”

“You are making progress,” Tony said. “A year ago, you couldn't even twitch your little finger.”

“And look at me now,” Bucky said bitterly, staring down at his limp hand, the massive burn scar that covered his palm, the crooked fingers, lumpy wrist. 

“Yeah, look at you,” Tony said, and reached for Bucky's brace, began to buckle his hand back in with utmost gentleness. “You've got a job, you're sleeping through the night, you're tromping all around the city like Carrie Bradshaw...”

“Tromping,” Bucky snorted. “More like hobbling. And who the hell is Carrie Bradshaw?”

“All I'm saying is, you're doing good,” Tony said. “C'mon, we're done for today. How's your leg, you good to stand? I'll get you an Uber, my treat.”

:::

Bucky found Clint waiting for him in his living room when he got home. 

“Hey,” Clint said brightly, from Bucky's armchair. “Wanna come over for dinner?”

“Never shoulda given you a key,” Bucky grumbled. He propped his crutch up on the wall and shrugged out of his jacket, tugging his sleeve with his teeth to get his good arm untangled. “Did Tony call you?”

“It's taco night,” Clint said. “Nat's bringing guacamole.”

“Isn't that a breach of professional ethics, or something?” Bucky said. 

“Guacamole?”

“Talking to my physical therapist on the phone,” Bucky clarified, headed for the couch. He palmed the back of the armchair for a little extra support as he passed, or tried to, brace clunking the back of the frame and sending a shockwave of pain up his arm, so sharp he couldn't keep the grimace off his face. 

“All Tony said was, you had a rough session,” Clint said. He was watchful as Bucky propped his crutch up and reached for the arm of the couch to lower himself down, slowly, slowly, hip aching where it had hit the floor earlier. “Thought maybe you'd want some company.” 

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, close to tears again for the second time that day. What he wanted was to be alone. But he knew as soon as the door closed behind Clint and he was left in his tiny bleak studio apartment, he'd start longing for the sound of another human voice, a distraction from himself. He'd start having conversations in his head, like he'd done in Russia, trying with all his might to ignore the screams coming from his own body.

“I don't know if I want company,” Bucky said, agitated, gripping the top of his thigh where the muscle was threatening to spasm. “I don't know what I want.” It was hard to think when everything hurt. 

“All right, all right,” Clint said, low and soothing, like he was talking to Lucky, his nine year-old dog, for whom his store was named. “Look, dinner's at six, so you've got about an hour. If you want to come, please come. We'd be glad to have you. But if you don't have the energy, that's fine, too.”

“Quit bein' so nice to me,” Bucky growled, knowing he was being irrational but unable to stop himself. Right now he felt insulted by Clint's tranquil composure in the face of his own hectic brain. 

“Fine,” Clint said, and stood, brushed imaginary dust off the thighs of his jeans. “See you never, sucker. I'll tell Natasha's recluse roommate you said hi. I'll say you're taking a leaf out of his book and sitting in a dark room while your friends have fun without you.”

“Natasha's --” Bucky was momentarily startled out of his shitty mood. “Steve? Steve is coming?”

“Sure is,” Clint said, and, making obnoxiousness an art form, he leaned over Bucky and planted a big wet kiss in the middle of his forehead. “Good thing I never told him you were coming, or he might be disappointed. Have a great night staring at the ceiling.”

Then he was gone, and the apartment was quiet. 

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, tried to work through some of the breathing exercises Sam had taught him, imagining healing light flowing through his fucked-up limbs, purple sparkles of warmth or whatever, but it didn't work, and eventually he had to get up and take another round of painkillers, chasing them with tap water and a Xanax for good measure. Then he lay back on the couch and put his leg up and kept breathing, waiting for his meds to kick in, waiting for the ache to fade to something manageable, something that might let him stand and wash his face and take the elevator three floors up and eat tacos with his friends. And with Steve Rogers. 

One of the reasons Bucky didn't go out much anymore was due to a simple lack of curiosity. 

The main reason, of course, was how hard it was, physically speaking; even taking the subway to PT each week was sometimes beyond him, and he'd wasted money on cabs more times than he cared to count because he couldn't imagine hiking down the ten endless cement steps to the train. Not to mention the jolting, swerving train ride, where probably someone would offer him a seat but maybe not – if so, his pride would ache almost as badly as his leg, and if not, he'd be forced to cling like a limpet to a dirty metal pole and grit his teeth against the discomfort. Then there were the fourteen steps up out of the station, then the three blocks to Tony's office, and then after a terrible hour and a half of being prodded and cajoled and stretched to his limits, he'd have to turn around and do it all over again. 

The world wasn't open to him, anymore. He remembered a time it had been, remembered it with the bitter sepia-toned pang of hindsight, because of course he hadn't seen that openness at the time, had taken it for granted. Accessibility, some people called it, and yeah – there was the unassailable fact that the world physically wasn't set up for him, wasn't set up for a guy with only one working hand and one working leg, a guy who needed to sit down a lot and couldn't take stairs very well and couldn't carry his own latte from the counter to his table – but the lack of openness transcended his physical ramifications. He felt, quite simply, that a door had been shut somewhere, and he didn't really care anymore what was behind it. Most of the doors he'd opened had held only pain. His curiosity, which had once driven him across the world and into the hands of people who'd wrecked him body and soul, was a thing of the past. 

For the most part.

He was curious, though, about Steve Rogers. He wondered if Steve had heard him fight with Tony, wondered what Steve had thought of it. Wondered how far Steve's tattoos went up those skinny arms. Was he inked on his torso, too? How had he learned to draw so well? What were his paintings like? What did he mean, he worked from memory? And what was wrong with him, exactly, what had put that line between his eyebrows? Bucky had been in pain for long enough that he recognized it in someone else, and Steve was hurting. Why?

It was this, maybe, that drew him to Steve. The recognition of pain. Like looking in a mirror, but instead of hating what he saw, he felt compassion for it. 

And attraction. He might as well be honest with himself. Steve Rogers was cute as a fucking button, if buttons had deep voices and big hands and blue eyes that alternately shone and shuttered. It'd been a long time since Bucky'd experienced this kind of genuine attraction – and what was attraction, but a deep, physical curiosity? 

He was curious about so little, these days. He might as well indulge himself, though nothing would come of it. 

His watch hit six o'clock, and he reached for his crutch. 

Taco time.


	3. Chapter 3

The only bad thing about Clint's apartment was the dog. 

Lucky himself was a sweetheart – a slobbery, stinky sweetheart with big brown eyes and soft shiny fur that begged to be patted and stroked; fur Steve could never resist. Just five minutes in Clint's kitchen with Lucky's head on his knee and his hands already smelled strongly of dog, though that wasn't the problem. The problem was his fucking hair-trigger asthma. He coughed into his shoulder, dry and unproductive.

“Beer?” Clint said from the fridge. 

“Better not,” Steve said, reluctantly. He'd learned the hard way that booze wasn't great on his lungs, either, and alcohol plus dog could mean some real discomfort. He tried not to stare longingly as Clint opened one for himself and took a long swig. 

“Coffee?” Natasha said, her tone too knowing. She was sipping vodka on ice. 

“Nah, I'm good,” Steve said, ruffling Lucky's ears, but she was already turning to plug in the coffee maker. He swallowed any further refusals he might have made, because in fact, coffee would feel good, and Natasha knew it helped. “Thanks,” he said, trying not to sound grudging. He leaned down past Lucky's panting face to his messenger bag, patting the front pocket to reassure himself that his inhaler was still there, just in case, then dipped into the main compartment for his vaporizer and weed. At least he could get a buzz on this way.

“Oooh, what's the latest?” Clint said, peering at the little container of oil Steve was fitting into his vape.

“Obama Kush,” Steve said, grinning, and Clint tossed back his head and laughed. He loved hearing the different names for different varietals of weed; said it was his life's goal to get one named after him, someday. 

Steve got the vape loaded and took a long pull, then passed it to Clint, who took a moment to admire it, as he always did, and said, “Gotta get me one of these babies.”

Nat put a hand on Clint's shoulder, and waited to speak until he'd glanced back at her. Steve knew Clint heard well with his hearing aids, but he was impressed, as always, with Natasha's innate, chameleon-like consideration – she cared for and adjusted herself to the people around her without batting an eye. Maybe, he thought with a pang, that was an effect of growing up with a sickly half-deaf disaster of a best friend. 

“I'm gonna start cooking,” she said. “Wanna shred some lettuce?”

“Sure,” Clint said, leaning to give her a quick kiss on the side of her mouth. 

“Your other friend's not coming?” Steve said.

“Guess not,” Clint said, mouth twisting downwards, and he passed the vape back Steve's way. Steve took a hit, relieved. Clint was obviously disappointed, which was a shame, but Steve had been nervous when Nat had mentioned a possible fourth guest; he didn't always do well with new people, especially not on a day like today, when he was wheezy and sore, knees aching so badly he kept having to shift position despite the heavenly massage Sam had given him not an hour earlier. 

Nat said something, but Steve had been focused on hitting his vape again and missed it. “Sorry, what?” he said, glancing up. 

She and Clint exchanged a look, and the hackles on the back of Steve's neck rose. Clint was always dropping hints about getting the hearing in his good (or, better) ear tested, but Steve stalwartly ignored them; Clint looked cool in his purple hearing aids, but Clint was broad-shouldered and handsome and tousle-haired, with a nose that was crooked from being broken too many times. Not that Steve cared too much about looking cool, but he was scrawny and spectacled and asthmatic: he already looked like a walking target. And he already relied too heavily on outside interference to want to add another little machine to his list: inhaler, nebulizer, even his vaporizer... 

“I asked if you wanted your coffee black,” Nat said.

“Oh,” Steve said. “Yeah. Please. Thanks.” He took another pull on the vape and put it down on the table, pushed himself to his feet, knees cracking painfully in protest. “Can I help?” he said, accepting a hot cup of coffee and burying his nose in the blissful scent.

“If I ask you to cut onions, are you gonna cry?” Nat said.

“Probably,” Steve said. “But I can take it.”

Nat set him up at the end of the counter with a cutting board and an enormous purple-skinned onion, and he sliced it in half and began peeling it very slowly, admiring its color in stoned satisfaction. The weed was playing on the relaxation he still felt from his massage earlier, and the pain in his knees had receded to a faraway hum. Meanwhile the coffee was helping a bit with his shortness of breath. All in all, he was feeling pretty good. 

The knock on the door startled him so badly he nearly sliced a finger off. 

Clint lit up like a Christmas tree, though, a big smile starting across his face as he crossed the room, Lucky trotting excitedly at his feet. 

“That better be Buck,” he said, and Steve barely had time to think 'Buck? What's a Buck?' when Clint yanked open the door and revealed none other than Bucky, the Mysterious Waiting Room Hottie, leaning on his crutch and smiling in a sheepish, endearing way. 

“Hey,” he said, leaning forward to accept Clint's hug, hooking his chin over Clint's shoulder in a funny little embrace. “C'mon, pal, you just saw me.”

“Didn't think you were coming,” Clint said.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky said, and took a couple steps past him into the kitchen. He avoided Steve's astonished eyes but sent a wry nod in his direction, seeming totally unsurprised. “Hi Steve.”

“Bucky, you --” Steve spluttered. “What are you --”

“Told you,” Bucky said. “I work for Clint.”

“Oh, so I'm just your employer, now?” Clint said.

“Also,” said Bucky, “we've been best friends since we were five. Hey, Nat, good to see you. Take these off me, would you?”

“Oooh,” Nat said, freeing the package of Oreos he had trapped under his bad arm. “Dessert.”

Bucky used his crutch to knock a chair back from the table and lowered himself down, sweeping a hand through the long dark locks that framed his face, and Steve realized it was the first time he'd seen him without a baseball cap. Without a hat, his eyes were huge and blue, a hint of crows-feet around the edges. He had dark circles under his eyes and lines of pain etched around his mouth, but there was something young about his face, something sweet, even under the stubble and scowl. 

“Can I get you a beer?” Clint said, rubbing his hands together, so transparently pleased to see him it warmed Steve's heart. 

After a long pause, Bucky said, “Probably shouldn't. But thanks.”

Steve suddenly remembered that the last time he heard Bucky's voice, he was shouting at Tony from down the hall after a very alarming-sounding crash. Bucky clearly remembered this too; he still wasn't meeting Steve's gaze. Or maybe he wasn't meeting Steve's gaze because Steve was standing there at the counter with a knife dangling from one hand, openly staring with eyes that were no doubt bloodshot and squinty. Quickly, Steve turned back to the onion. Play it cool, Rogers, he admonished himself. 

“What's this, though?” Bucky said, and Steve turned around again to see him stretch his bad arm out across the table and tap his fingers clumsily into Steve's vape. “Smells like...”

“Weed,” Clint said. “Courtesy of Mr. Rogers, here. He gets the best shit.”

“Really?” Bucky quirked an eyebrow. 

“Try it and see,” Steve says. “If you want.”

Bucky picked the vape up in his good hand and examined it, then took a tentative hit. He held his breath for a long time, then let it out in a whoosh, Steve jealously admiring his lung capacity. “Haven't smoked pot in years,” Bucky admitted. “Never with one of these things. Did I do it right?”

“You tell me,” Steve said. Just one hit and Bucky's eyelids were already lowered slightly. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “I did. Jesus. That's... strong.”

Lucky dropped an adoring head on his thigh, and Bucky smoothed the tips of his bad fingers across the bridge of his fuzzy nose and down the silky ears, clearly trying to be delicate despite the heavy brace, and the sight of that conscious tenderness stirred something in Steve's chest. 

“Ready for that onion whenever,” Natasha said, and Steve roused himself from his Bucky-induced reverie to finish chopping. 

“Can I do anything to help?” Bucky said. 

“Hmm,” Nat said, and there was a long silence.

“Never mind,” Bucky said bitterly, just as Nat said, “You could oil these tortillas and lay them out on a baking sheet.”

“Oh,” said Bucky, sounding pleased, “sure,” and from behind him Steve heard a rustle and clatter as Nat dropped the ingredients onto the table. 

“So, wait,” Steve said, carrying the cutting board over to where Natasha was waiting with a hot pan of oil. He slid the onions in and spoke above their sizzle. “You've known Clint since you were five?”

“Yep,” Bucky said. 

“You know my old man wasn't the nicest guy,” Clint said, and Steve nodded grimly. That was a vast understatement. Clint's dad had knocked him around so hard he'd given him the brain injury that'd cut most of his hearing at age nine. “Well,” Clint said, cheerful as ever, “Buck lived in the apartment down the hall; I practically lived there, too. His ma, god rest her, used to clean me up after my dad went at me. She called CPS on him once, but she was undocumented and my dad managed to turn it around on her – almost got her deported.”

“Undocumented?” Steve said, sitting back down in the chair across from Bucky. Lucky transferred loyalties, nosing at Steve's knee. “Where're you from?”

“Mother's Romanian,” Bucky said, shaking a tortilla loose from the stack in front of him. “Dad was Irish, or so they tell me.”

“I never thought of this before, but you and Clint are kind of a reverse mirror of me and Steve,” Nat said, pouring herself another healthy swig of vodka. “Child of angry Russian immigrants,” she gestured to herself, “seeks shelter with nice Irish Catholic single mom down the hall.”

“And her twerpy kid,” Steve said.

“You've known each other that long?” Bucky said, glancing from Steve to Nat.

“I've had stress dreams about setting up nebulizers since I was eight,” Nat said, and Steve frowned at her, shaking his head a little. Please, he begged her silently, please don't make me look bad in front of this guy. 

“Nebulizers?” Bucky said.

“It's a dumb asthma thing,” Steve said dismissively. 

“I used to have stress dreams about learning sign,” Bucky said, looking at Clint. “Remember that? When we first started taking ASL? I had one recently, actually – probably 'cause I've been relearning a bunch of it for one hand.”

Clint grinned and began signing, his hands moving quickly through the air, and Bucky responded as best he could, good hand bouncing off his stiff left palm, immobilized fingers twitching minutely as if they wanted to join in. Steve caught a couple words: friend, dinner; but then he was distracted, because Bucky smiled, eyes lighting up and ten years falling from his face. 

“Doin' good, man,” Clint said.

“Trying,” said Bucky. He knocked the metal tortilla tray with his brace, set it ringing. “This is ready, Nat.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Steve, you want to grate some cheddar?”

“Sure,” Steve said, accepting the block of cheese and the grater. Clint bounced over to the fridge to crack another beer, and he gave Natasha's ass a hard pat as he passed the stove. She whipped her hand around without looking and caught his wrist, then pulled him forward so he was flush against her back, and she could turn her head and kiss him without moving an inch from the stove. 

They'd been dating for almost six months and Steve had never seen Nat like this with anyone before; he went a little melty at the sight of his best friend so openly displaying her affection, though his happiness for Nat was admittedly tinged with sadness for himself, and his own loneliness. Despite himself, he glanced at Bucky, at the very same time that Bucky turned his gaze from Clint and Nat to look at him: for the first time all night, their eyes met. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, very quietly. “Did you hear me and Tony earlier?”

Steve went for honest. “Yeah,” he said. “Sounded a hell of a lot more exciting than my session with Sam.”

Bucky rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he said. “If I... if we were loud.”

“Nah, no worries,” Steve said. “Did make me curious about Tony, though. Sam's so calming. Tony sounded... uh, not calming.”

“Yeah, no, he's pretty much the opposite,” Bucky said, but Steve read fondness in his tone. “Sam does more of the typical massage thing, but Tony's a straight-up physical therapist. He's all about making you work.” He cracked a self-deprecating smile. “I didn't wanna work today.”

“I get that,” Steve said. “Sam's got me doing fifteen minutes of stretches a day – just fifteen minutes – and I come up with every excuse in the book not to do 'em.”

“But you do them, right?” Nat said sternly from the stove, now untangled from Clint. 

“So far,” Steve said. “It's only been a week.” He took another hit off his vape and then offered it to Bucky, who accepted it with a doubtful look, then shook his head and passed it back.

“I don't know how you're not under the table with that stuff,” Bucky said. “One hit and I'm really feeling it.”

“I've got a high tolerance,” Steve said. “It is pretty strong, though. It's medical.”

“What?” Bucky said. “Like, legally?”

“Yup,” Steve said. “Got a prescription last winter. You didn't know it was legal in New York?” At Bucky's head-shake he hesitated, then said, “I got approved for pain relief. It really helps.”

“Yeah?” Bucky said, then was quiet for a moment, concentrating. Finally he shrugged and said, “Think I'm on too much vike to see if it made a difference.”

“I can't take Vicodin,” Steve said. “Messes with my stomach.”

“I hear that,” Bucky said. “Have you tried Lortab?”

“It makes me anxious,” Steve said. 

“Me too!” Bucky said. “One dose and I was jumping outta my skin.”

“I took the rest of his bottle,” Clint said. “For recreational purposes, you understand. Very pleasant, especially with a beer or two.”

“To be honest, I'm thinking real hard about having a beer right now,” Bucky said.

“I'll split one with you,” Steve offered. “I mean, if you don't want a whole one.” Half a beer would probably be okay on his lungs. 

“Really?” Bucky said. “Yeah. That sounds great.”

Steve made to stand, but Clint was already moving, hooking two glasses out of the cupboard and thunking them down on the table, filling them with all the flair of a seasoned bartender. “Gentlemen,” he said. 

“This is almost ready,” Nat said. “Clint, help me set the table? Steve, grab the cilantro from the fridge?”

Steve did as he was told, feeling both embarrassed and irrationally pleased by the brief conversation he and Bucky had just had. He usually tried to leave any discussion of illness or medication out of polite, public chitchat, and even if he did ever try to start a public conversation, he wasn't usually around people who could participate. It was weirdly freeing to talk about pain out loud like this, with someone who understood, even though his own problems were clearly very, very different from Bucky's.

He glanced at Bucky, sitting alone at the table, frowning a little into his beer as everyone moved busily around him, and felt a surge of uncommon appreciation for his own body, which for all its peccadillos was still able to carry him around pretty well. He could go back and forth from the fridge to the kitchen table with no trouble; could hold a bowl of diced tomatoes in one hand and a bowl of chopped cilantro in the other. Could open a jar of salsa without struggling one-handed. 

“I got it,” Clint said, taking the salsa from Bucky and popping it open with ease. Bucky smiled at his friend, but Steve could easily see what lurked behind that smile: utter frustration. Couldn't Clint see it, too?

Apparently not. “Here, let me,” Clint said, reaching for the bottle of hot sauce Bucky had been fumbling with. Bucky gave another one of those tight smiles and finished off his glass of beer. 

“You want another?” Clint said, ever-alert to Bucky's needs, and Bucky shrugged, then gave a resigned nod of thanks as he took the beer bottle Clint opened for him.

“This taco meat is great, Nat,” Bucky said a moment later. “What's in it?”

“Lots of spices,” Nat said. “I can give you the recipe, if you want.”

“You cook?” Steve asked.

“Ha! I try,” Bucky said. “Tony's suggestion. Like, life skills shit. Gettin' pretty good at hacking up vegetables one-handed. Though I tried to zest a lemon the other day and it ended up under my couch. Think it's still there.”

Clint said brightly, “I can grab it for you next time I pop by.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said stiffly, “but why waste a free air freshener?”

Steve laughed, a little breathlessly. The tacos were indeed delicious, but his lungs had started closing up again and eating was a bit of a struggle; he was wheezing around each bite, rudely chewing with his mouth open to make sure he got enough oxygen. He'd only just finished his first taco; everyone else was on their third or, in Nat's case, her fourth. Resigned, he reached down to his bag and palmed his inhaler as stealthily as he could, though he had to shove Lucky's big curious head out of the way to do it. 

“Be right back,” he said, getting to his feet, and he ducked through the dark living room into Clint's ridiculous, nautically-themed bathroom. He shook the inhaler and sucked on it gratefully, held his breath, let it out in a whoosh. One puff would probably be enough for now. He turned on the sink, rinsed out his mouth and spat. He couldn't help but glance in the mirror and nervously pat down the tuft of blond hair that was sticking up in back, but then he made a face at himself. Who was he kidding, trying to primp? Bucky probably didn't even date guys, and if he did, he wouldn't go for someone like Steve. And as the evening passed Steve was starting to realize that he genuinely liked Bucky, even beyond the pretty face – which was even more of an incentive not to let his little crush get out of control. If he could keep his pesky feelings under wraps, they could actually be friends, he thought. 

Back at the table, Bucky and Nat were deep in a heated discussion about some British cupcake show, and Clint was slouched back with his beer, watching the two of them, smiling. Steve slid back into his seat and made himself another taco, though everyone else seemed to be finished. His breath was coming easier already, and he was still hungry.

“I'm just saying, if you're going to make something as gross as marzipan in the first place, at least own the grossness,” Bucky said. “Why cover it up with food dye? It's beige for a reason; as a warning.”

“This from the guy who once ate three almond croissants in one sitting.”

“Oh my god, woman. That's frangipane, not marzipan. Learn your almond pastes.”

“I can't,” Natasha said. “My research would kill Steve.”

“That's true,” Steve said, finishing his taco and wiping his hands on his napkin, sated.

“You're allergic to nuts?” Bucky said, putting a hand over his heart, sympathetic like a Southern grandma. 

“Tree nuts,” Steve said. “I can eat peanut butter all day.”

“Sometimes he does,” Nat said. 

“This conversation is making me hungry again,” Clint said. “Let's break out those Oreos.”

“Can we move this party to the living room?” Bucky said. “Could use a couch.”

“Nah, leave that,” Clint said, as Steve began to clear the table. “I'm off tomorrow. Give me something to do.” 

Bucky was leaning down to grab the crutch he'd shoved under the table, pushing himself up, settling his arm in the cuff, heading towards the fridge. 

“What do you need?” Clint said, hovering.

“Down, boy,” Bucky said mildly, bad arm hooked over the door of the fridge. He worked a beer free of its cardboard six pack and got it fixed and dangling between the first two fingers of his good hand, managed to lean on his crutch and hang onto the bottle with no problem, and he grinned a little triumphantly. “You can open it for me, though,” he told Clint, with the magnanimous air of an emperor.

“What an honor,” Clint said, reaching for the bottle opener and following Bucky into the living room, turning on lights as he went; pointedly, Natasha moved the giant bow that was propped up against one of the armchairs. Clint was a competitive archer during the winter; summertime, he ran an archery camp for teenagers. “Hey, Buck,” Clint said, as Bucky lowered himself onto the couch. “What's your favorite painting in this room?”

Bucky handed him his beer bottle to be opened. “That one, dumbass,” Bucky said, pointing. “I've only tried to buy it off you a hundred times.”

Steve could feel himself blush, furiously. It was one of his paintings, an older one, from his MFA exhibition; a still life of flowers in a hospital room, from the view of the hospital bed. There was something a little off about the color scheme, lending the whole thing an air of bleakness despite the bright flowers. 

“That's Steve's!” Clint said. 

Bucky turned to look at Steve, impressed. “Really? No shit.”

“It's old,” Steve said, slipping into self-deprecating mode as always. “I was in a maudlin phase.”

“You're always in a maudlin phase,” Nat said affectionately.

“I love it,” Bucky said. “You really... I don't know how to talk about art, but you really caught something. I mean, I really feel it, you know?”

“Thanks,” Steve said, still bright red. “Thanks for saying so.”

Bucky had settled back into the cushions of the couch, and Lucky jumped up next to him, curled a few times and settled himself down with a doggy yawn, which Bucky imitated unconsciously. His eyelids were half mast, and even as he took a sip of his beer he squinted down at it uncertainly. “I'm gonna be seriously fucked up if I drink this whole thing,” Bucky said. “Steve? A little help?”

“Can't,” Steve said remorsefully. His chest had loosened up but he saw no reason to encourage it to close again. 

“Nat?”

“Beer is for children,” she said disdainfully, lifting her umpteenth glass of vodka. The woman could drink and drink and never show any signs of intoxication, save for the glitter in her eyes. 

“All right, well, bottoms up, I guess,” Bucky said. 

But just a few sips later he was asleep, practically mid-sentence – head tipped back, bad hand resting on Lucky's head. The others kept chatting for another half hour or so, until Bucky began snoring quietly, a little whistle and sigh that made Steve smile. 

“That's my cue to take off,” Steve said, slapping his hands on his thighs and pushing himself up with a creak of his shitty knees. “Nat, you sleeping here or coming with me?”

“Staying here,” Nat said.

“Hey, take Bucky home with you,” Clint said, and Steve looked at him, astonished, already blushing again. “I mean, walk him to his apartment,” Clint said quickly. “Just wanna make sure he gets down all right.”

Privately, Steve thought Bucky was fully capable of finding his way home in the same damn building, but he watched as Clint reached over and shook Bucky by the shoulder. 

“Hey, buddy,” Clint said. “Rise and shine. Party's over.”

“Mmm,” Bucky said.

“C'mon,” Clint said, flicking him in the cheek. “Open up those baby blues.”

Bucky blinked, looking so adorably sleepy that Steve's toes curled a little. “Ugh,” he said, brow furrowing as he tried to sit up a little straighter. “Everything's blurry.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Clint said.

“Two,” Bucky said, swatting him away heavily. “Man. Shouldn't be drinking on these meds.”

“That's what you always say.”

“I just miss beer so much,” Bucky said, eyes wide and sad. “Plus peer pressure.”

“Hey, Stevie here's gonna walk you home,” Clint said, and Bucky raised an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“Is that so,” he said. 

“I'm going that way anyway,” Steve said, a little annoyed at Clint for putting him in the position of unnecessary caretaker, and Bucky shrugged, already climbing to his feet. 

“Thanks for dinner,” Bucky said. 

“Thanks for your presence,” Clint said, and smacked a kiss on Bucky's cheek. Bucky wiped it on his shoulder, like a grumpy kid saying goodbye to his mom. 

“Yeah, thanks for having me,” Steve said. 

“We should do this more often,” Clint said meaningfully.

Steve bit his lip. He turned down most of Clint's invitations, but it wasn't because he didn't want to hang out: it was that the apartment was covered in dog hair, and the building's hallways were damp, and the elevator was dusty. Clint was a great landlord – he took excellent care of his tenants, fixed anything that needed fixing, and kept the rent as low as he could – but his building wasn't exactly asthmatic-friendly. Not that Steve would ever tell him that. 

“Our place next time,” is all Steve said. Nat slapped his ass as he followed Bucky out the door. 

They were both quiet as they waited for the elevator, Bucky stifling yawns behind his hand and leaning sleepily on the wall, crutch loose on his wrist, but as soon as they'd stepped into the tiny space of the dinky elevator, Steve felt the silence turn tense. Or maybe he was just projecting, hyper-aware of how close Bucky was. He hadn't missed the way Bucky had moved deliberately around him, positioning his bad side to the wall, and the careful move made Steve desperately want to prove himself, to convince Bucky that he was trustworthy.

“What floor?” he said, finger poised over the buttons.

“Four. But you don't have to take me all the way to my door,” Bucky said. “I'm not some dame in distress. Clint's just a little...”

“Overprotective?” Steve suggested.

“That's putting it mildly,” Bucky said. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, “I noticed he – uh, he really looks out for you.”

“Used to be the other way around,” Bucky said. “I always looked after him, ever since we were kids. Then, you know, this happened.”

Steve did not ask what “this” meant, though of course he wanted to know. Mostly. Part of him wanted to plug his ears and close his eyes and never find out what had been done to Bucky's beautiful body to have left him so injured. 

“Must be tough to deal with,” Steve said.

“Yeah, he got used to me one way,” Bucky said. “Now I'm... a different way. Gotta be jarring, at the very least.”

“I meant for you,” Steve said. “I hate when people treat me like – I don't know, like I need babysitting 24/7.”

“How often _do_ you need babysitting?” Bucky said, smiling.

“Just weekend nights when Nat goes out,” Steve joked. “Someone's gotta heat up my chicken nuggets and regulate my television time.”

The elevator doors creaked open, and Bucky started forward onto the landing, then hitched around and put his braced hand up to keep the doors from shutting. “I'm a pretty good babysitter,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” Steve said, heart rate kicking up a notch. “Will you let me watch PG-13 movies?”

“Kid, I'll let you watch R,” Bucky said, with a smirk that turned Steve's already weak knees into pure jelly. 

“Well,” he said, “next time Nat needs someone to keep an eye on me, I'll tell her to call you.”

“Right,” Bucky said. The smirk faded a little. “She's got my number.” He dropped his hand from the elevator doors, readjusted his grip on his crutch. “Anyway. See you at the clinic next week, right?”

“See you at the clinic,” Steve said, and gave a dorky little lovestruck wave as the elevator doors slid closed. Through the narrowing gap, he watched Bucky slowly turn away.


End file.
